Bound to You
by Anomaly9
Summary: When Christine Daaé's father suddenly dies, her world comes crumbling down. All hope seems lost until her father's long time friend, Antoinette Giry, offers Christine a role at her famous Burlesque Lounge in L.A. There, she steals the heart of her audience and captures the attention of the reclusive record producer, Erik Destler. Modern AU. Based on POTO 2004 and Burlesque 2010.


Chapter 1

Christine

My eyes flutter open from a restless sleep to the early morning light streaming through my blinds. I fling my blankets off and stretch my arms out, stifling a yawn.

I'm happy I no longer require an alarm to wake me (and, consequently, my Dad) from slumber so early on a Saturday morning. Except Dad had a stroke that put him in a hospital across town. The thought crashes into my head, unexpected and entirely unwelcome. I squeeze my eyelids shut again as if I could make it disappear...as if I could make reality disappear. I shake my head and plant my feet on my cold bedroom floor. Padding over to my closet, I shuffle through its relatively meagre contents for something suitable to wear on the chilly September commute to the ballet studio downtown.

After settling on a knitted, black turtleneck and a pair of old jeans, I sit on the plush cushion in front of my vanity and do my best to ignore the vases of flowers and a stack of get well soon Hallmark cards sent from distant family members. I never bothered to drop them off at Dad's hospital room in the ICU, which is already overflowing with cards and flowers from the Brooklyn ballet company where Dad has been the pianist for as long as I can remember. I'd happily joined him as an employee when I made the corps de ballet less than a year ago.

I shove the stupid cards into the vanity drawer and begin my least favourite part of my morning routine. Laying out a hairbrush, elastics and an assortment of products, I attempt to force my mass of thick, dark, wayward curls to behave.

Once I've arranged them into an acceptable looking bun, complete with a year's supply of bobby pins, I swipe on my usual collection of simple, light makeup; a coat of mascara, foundation and a dab of lipgloss.

Although the choreographers prefer their dancers to wear makeup, I've never been one to cake my face in it...mostly because I never had a mother to show me how. Once again, I banish the depressing thought from my head. I need to focus on looking somewhat presentable. Staring at my pale reflection, I notice glaring dark circles under my sunken, too-big eyes. I grab a stick of concealer from my drawer and dab it on the circles, effectively blotting them out.

I survey my reflection again and satisfied that I no longer look like a zombie, get up and grab my pre-packed dance bag from the chair next to my door. I creep down the hallway, careful to avoid looking in Dad's room. The condo is eerily quiet without his bear-like snores.

When I reach the kitchen, I retrieve my lunchbox from the fridge, which is filled with several meals and snacks I prepared the night before. Ever since I joined the corpse, I've made it a habit to prep my meals ahead of time to be ready for the long, exhausting days of rehearsals. A career in ballet demands discipline, willpower and control if you hope to get anywhere and I intend to have all those things in spades.

Swiping my coat, car keys and studio keys from the rack in the front hall, I take the elevator from the 5th floor to the parking garage. Firing up the engine of our old black Jetta, I peel out of the garage and down the street.

I switch the radio on to my favourite station and Christina Aguilera's Beautiful filters through the speakers. One of my favourite songs. I turn up the volume, belting out the lyrics as I weave through the early morning traffic. It's been weeks since I sang anything, I realize. I missed my first love: music. Dad taught me to play the piano and read music when I was five. Not long after, I started singing and it's rivalled my love for dance ever since.

I park the car and run up the steps to the studio. I unlock the door using my keycard and step inside. No one else occupies the building aside from a security guard and the morning janitor.

Some people might call me crazy for being here on the weekend when everyone else is at home relaxing, but I enjoy practicing in solitude. It helps me get into the headspace I need to really absorb the choreography. I've been coming in almost every weekend lately because heaven knows I need the distraction.

I make my way to the locker rooms where I change into my black leotard, leg warmers and pointe shoes, then I'm off to Studio B.

I pull up the music app on my phone. The company is currently gearing up for a production of Swan Lake, so I choose Tchaikovsky's original score from my library.

When I finish my stretches, I get into first position, then rise on point. My limbs stretch into the air as I run through the opening act. It's not long before I lose myself in the choreography, the dynamic score of the ballet swirling around me. I imagine myself on stage, perfectly executing each move.

I'm halfway through the second act when I'm suddenly startled by the sound of my phone ringing. I stumble out of a pirouette and grab it off the floor. My heart begins to race when I see the caller ID. The Brooklyn Hospital Center flashes across the screen. I answer the call with sweating fingers as a nauseous feeling creeps into my stomach. I grip my phone as though it were a thing that could keep me from collapsing.

"Hello?" I say

"Hello, this is nurse Pelling from the Brooklyn Hospital Center. May I speak with Miss Christine Daae?" It's a sympathetic female voice on the other end of the line. I assume she must be a nurse or a receptionist.

"Yes, speaking," I say, doing my best to sound polite.

"Alright, and may I confirm that you are the daughter of Mr. Gustave Daae?" She asks, her tone cordial.

"Yes," I respond, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

"Miss Daae, I'm afraid I have some difficult news regarding your father,"

My mouth goes dry. I swallow hard. There's a long, heavy pause between us. When I say nothing, she continues.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that he passed away this morning."

I don't fully process her words at first. They sound like a jumbled mess like they're not real words at all. They can't be. This isn't happening. The world disappears as I sink down onto the studio floor, the phone still gripped tightly to my ear, and curl my legs up against my chest like I used to do when I was a frightened 6 year old.

"What do I do now?" I ask the nurse in a shaking voice, though I know I'm mostly asking myself that question. I feel as if someone has flung me overboard a ship and left me to drift out to sea, sputtering and gasping for air. Sitting on the studio floor, I am suddenly stranded, wet and cold, in the middle of nowhere. Tears spill silently down my cheeks as I collapse against the wall.

"I advise that you come to the hospital immediately, where can discuss…"

Her voice fades and I can no longer hear her at all.

What do I do now?

_A/N**: its been a while since I posted a story! (almost 4 years?) but I'm back with a new one. this is partially based on the 2010 movie Burlesque! i just couldn't stop seeing the parallels between it and POTO and felt compelled to write this.**_


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